Sand, Hair, Blood
by Vanillasiren
Summary: "It's called the Circle of Ultimate Protection. The more people are in it, the stronger it is." In his life, Mozenrath has drawn this circle three times. My "Spellbound" prequel "Eye of Newt" is pretty much required reading for this story.


Sand, Hair, Blood

Summary: "It's called the Circle of Ultimate Protection. The more people are in it, the stronger it is." In his life, Mozenrath has drawn this circle three times. My "Spellbound" prequel "Eye of Newt" is pretty much required reading for this story.

_The first time._

"Not like this. _Not_ like this."

It seemed to him his mother whispered the words in answer to the unspoken question that was on all of their minds: _Are we going to die?_

Ironically, when Destane had come to their land and declared himself their ruler, the family had been cautiously optimistic; most people were mistrustful of magic, after all, and those who lived in the Land of the Black Sand were no exception. But the family of sorcerers was quiet, respectful, and kept to themselves, making it a point not to display their abilities openly. For that, they were tolerated, if not accepted.

Oh, some of their fellow citizens might steal to them in the dark of the night to bargain for a potion or a conjuring, but outwardly, they were shunned, or at best, treated with reluctant civility. When Destane came, Hasan and Lamia were hopeful that things would change, that perhaps their new leader would make the people see that magic was just a tool, a gift like any other, and it need not be feared. Perhaps their children would even be able to make some friends now, besides each other.

Those hopes were dashed very quickly.

It soon became clear that their new leader was a tyrant. The sultan who had ruled their land previously had been an unremarkable, complacent leader, with a hands-off attitude that suited most of his subjects just fine. If he had not been overly loved, well then, neither had his people had any real complaints. When he died under mysterious circumstances, the sorcerer had moved in, claiming to be a distant relation to their deceased ruler. As the man had died with no heirs, and most of the people had no idea how to fight magic, they had reluctantly accepted his rule, hoping there wouldn't be much difference between one monarch and the other.

How wrong they had been.

Under Destane's rule, the land turned dark and cold. People started to disappear in the night, never to return. At first, no one knew where they were going, but later, as the sorcerer consolidated his power and grew bolder, it became horrifying clear. Undead soldiers patrolled the streets, seeking more live souls to add to their numbers, and it seemed the faster the remaining people tried to flee, the faster they were caught, and turned into Mamlucks.

Mozenrath had watched the people of his homeland grow desperate, and cruel. He had never felt accepted by his fellow citizens, but he had never felt outright hated … until now. The remaining living people seemed to vacillate between deeming him and his family guilty by association because of their magic, or else demanding that they do something to "fix" the situation.

Hasan and Lamia would have been more than happy to oblige, and rid Destane of their land for good. He watched his parents pour over all their spell books and scrolls, looking for potions, incantations, _anything_ that might defeat Destane. His mother was a capable sorceress, he knew, but Destane possessed power and magic beyond anything any of them had ever seen, and his father pointed out as much to her.

"We don't have to try and fight him, Lamia. We could just … leave."

"What about everyone else here?" Lamia asked.

"What do we owe them?" Hasan asked bitterly. "They have never treated us as equals." His wife gave him a look, and his expression softened.

"I know, I know. Well, I suppose we could organize a mass exodus of sorts. At least for those we could get to trust us …"

"And what then? Where will all of us go?"

"Well, I've … I've heard Agrabah is a prosperous kingdom, with a kind-hearted ruler. Perhaps they would help us reclaim our land …?"

Lamia scoffed. "Help us? In exchange for what?"

Hasan appeared to consider. "I don't know. But their sultan – "

"Must think of his own people first, and not a horde of foreign refugees. Besides which, there is no magic in Agrabah. We would not be welcome there either."

"Lamia, we can't fight Destane! _You _can't –"

"_Watch me_." He recognized the look of determination of his mother's face, her mouth set in a hard line. Her expression softened, however, as she looked at his father. She cupped Hasan's face in her hand.

"My love, you must let me try, just once, to defeat him. If it doesn't work, then we will do as you say, and flee to Agrabah."

Hasan put his hand over hers. "Alright," he said softly.

Together, his parents had concocted a potion to poison Destane. How they smuggled it into the Citadel, he never knew, because they wouldn't tell him. And it had _almost _worked. The gasps, the death rattle of the sorcerer echoed through the land, and it seemed that each of the remaining citizens was holding their breath, as one, hoping for his demise. But Destane was a skilled potions maker himself, and he had prepared for such a contingency, and had a remedy at hand.

When he recovered, he tore through the land, seeking out those who had dared to try and kill him.

And now, he had found them. Or at least, his minions had.

"How can we fight the undead?" His father gasped, and the Mamlucks approached their home.

"We have all the weapons we need," his mother whispered slowly, as if coming to a realization. His father seemed to catch her meaning.

"Do you mean …"

"A protection circle, Hasan. Sand, hair, blood. That's all it takes." His father nodded his understanding.

"Aisha, you first. Mozenrath …"

He'd never seen the circle made before, but he knew how to start. Working hard to keep his hands steady, he guided his sister's movement, helped her make a circle around the three of them, with four little circles at spots in its circumference. Then he took out a dagger and cut off a lock of her hair, and she placed strands of it in each small circle. Finally, he clasped her hand, whispered "Be brave, little one," and slashed the knife across her palm. He took her hand, placing it in each little circle, and she left a bloody mark behind. He used his magic to heal her cut, and then turned to his mother.

Lamia repeated the ritual with him – sand, hair, blood. And Hasan repeated the ritual with her, kissing the inside of her palm before he had to cut it open. That meant his father had to make the last circle alone. That was the most dangerous part, for their enemies were fast approaching.

Hasan was putting down his final bloody stamp when the door flung open, and undead were upon them.

"_Contego_!"* His mother shouted, and a magical barrier surrounded them. The Mamlucks threw themselves against it, breaking into pieces, but they could not breach it. The family clung together, watching, hardly daring to breathe, much less move, but still, the barrier held. They were safe … for now.

"Hasan," Lamia whispered, after the Mamlucks had retreated. "Tell me again about Agrabah."

_The second time._

"Will it be strong enough, brother? With just the two of us?"

Aisha curled into him, trembling, and he kissed her forehead. "I don't know, little one," he whispered. "But we're all that's left, and we have to try. We have to _live_."

He'd promised, after all. He'd promised Aisha, and he'd promised his dying parents that he would take care of his sister, that he would get both her and himself out of this alive.

Once again, he helped her draw the circle. Once again, he cut her hair, and her skin. Sand, hair, blood. So simple, so perfect.

He only wished his mother's hands were guiding him as he made his own circle, cut his own hair, slashed his own skin. Only two little circles now, to put his hair and blood in. Just the two of them, and their meager magic. But it had to hold. It _had_ to hold.

This time, the approach of the undead was not sudden. They crept along, silent as shadows, before bursting through the door of the abandoned hovel and approaching the two children. Mozenrath and Aisha clung to each other, and for a moment, he was too afraid to speak, but then he found his voice, and screamed, "_Contego_!" and the barrier went up. Again, the Mamlucks threw themselves against it, and for a moment, it looked like they might get through. But the barrier held, and eventually, the undead retreated again, and they were left alone in the dark.

"I want to fly from here," his sister whispered. Mozenrath stroked her hair.

"We will, Aisha," he promised. "We will."

_The third and final time._

"Think of it as test, boy," Destane said, as Mozenrath gasped, clutching at his neck. "If you pass, you get to _live_."

The sorcerer had used a spell to slash his throat – the cut was not deep enough to kill him, but if he didn't heal himself, it was quite likely he'd bleed out, or choke on his own blood. This little "test" was in response to what Destane had deemed his insubordination. What he had done to anger the twisted old man so, Mozenrath could never recall. He just knew that in the next few minutes, his life hung in the balance, in more ways than one.

The Malucks approached him. Not only did Destane expect him to somehow heal himself, he also expected him to fight off the undead.

For a moment, his vision blurred, and his thoughts grew cloudy.

For a moment, he almost gave up.

"_You have all the weapons you need. Sand, hair, blood. That's all it takes."_

Was that his mother's voice? Was he hallucinating? Mozenrath blinked, and his sight grew clearer. The protection circle, of course! But … he was only one now. Could it possibly still work with just him?

He didn't know. But he also knew he didn't have any other choice but to try it.

As Destane watched impassively and the Malucks approached him, Mozenrath drew the circle with a shaky hand. With no knife handy, he simply ripped the hair from his scalp, barely feeling the pain of it, and placed the strands in the single small circle. He took his hand away from the wound in his throat long enough to place a bloody handprint there as well. Somehow, he managed to gasp out "_Contego!_" and the barrier went up.

And the Mamlucks could not cross it.

Mozenrath closed his eyes, concentrating, as his life oozed out of him_. Not like this. _Not _like this. Not when I'm so close to defeating you, you old bastard! Not when my revenge is so near. I'm not going to die, I'm not going to fail them again. I'm not going to die, not like this!_

When he opened his eyes, the Mamlucks had retreated, and the wound at the base of his throat was healed – though it did leave behind a nasty scar. Later, when he had claimed Destane's throne as his own and began his conquest for power, he would take care to always keep it covered up.

"Very good, my apprentice. You passed the test," Destane said, with some strange equivalent of pride. "As a reward, you will live another day, to learn more of my magic. Be ready. Tomorrow your training … _intensifies_." Then he turned and left without another word.

"_You _be ready, old man," Mozenrath whispered, as he struggled to stand up. "For tomorrow is when I take your gauntlet from you, and your humanity as well. Tomorrow is when I finally take my revenge."

*Latin for "Protect."

Author's Note: So okay, I basically stole the idea of the protection circle from a movie I saw once. I switched out one of the elements of the circle though (from chalk to sand, and I think we all know why I found sand more appropriate), and changed the nature of what the circle was actually for. So for those of you who might have recognized what I did, and wanted to call me out for stealing the idea - too late, I'm calling myself out, hah!


End file.
